


No one expects the Spanish Inquisition

by WoodsWitch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adventures in History, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), M/M, Minor pining, Mona Lisa, Renaissance Era, The Arrangement (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21611548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: The Arrangement is 500 years old, and Crowley and Aziraphale have been having a fine time in Renaissance Florence. Things start to go a bit pear-shaped with the arrival of a Friar Savonarola, so Crowley suggests that they meet up in his favorite refuge from the rest of medieval Europe: Spain. "Good wine, beautiful architecture....And the gardens...meant to evoke The Garden, you know...And books! The Emir of Granada has the most wonderful library. Or his grandfather had, anyway. Whatever. I'm sure you could charm him into letting you have a look." However, the arrival of a commendation from hell suggests things must have gone rather seriously wrong.Guest appearance by Rodrigo Borgia and family. Also: how Crowley got his Mona Lisa sketch.Edit: It occurs to me this probably needs a TW for historical antisemitism (Spanish Inquisition) and homophobia (Savonarola and his gang) even though the worst aspects of how that stuff played out at the time do not appear "on screen"
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 35





	No one expects the Spanish Inquisition

~~~

"Crowley had got a commendation for the Spanish Inquisition. He _had_ been in Spain then, mainly hanging around cantinas in the nicer parts, and hadn't even _known_ about it until the commendation arrived. He'd gone to have a look, and had to come back and get drunk for a week"

\- _Good Omens, Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett_

~~~

In a small tavern in Sevilla, in 1492, a bartender watched one of his customers with growing concern. The pale skinned man with rust-colored hair had been drinking steadily for hours. An odd looking fellow - tall and thin, and dressed head to pointy toe in black. _Must be a northerner,_ the bartender thought. Oddest of all, he wore circles of smoked glass in front of his eyes. _Rather a clever idea - the sun is very bright. But why is he still wearing them inside?_

The man downed another glass and waved the bartender over. "Another one of these apple whatsits," he slurred.

The bartender frowned. The man had already polished off four bottles of wine and one of apple brandy. "Señor, don't you think you've had enough?"

The stranger shook his head. "Not remotely. Keep it coming." He slapped a coin down on the table. It was worth at least three bottles of brandy. The bartender scooped it up, sighed, and went off to fetch the order.

Crowley put his head in his hands and groaned. This trip had seemed like such a good idea at the time. He had visited Hispania (as he'd learned to call the peninsula back in the first century) several times before and had always quite enjoyed it. In fact, his visits in the 10th and 14th centuries had been among the few bright spots in those dark and pestilence-riddled years1. Sunny, cultured, literate...and you had to love a spot where you could fulfill your minimum daily temptation quota just by offering to share a bottle of wine and a plate of thin slices of translucent ham2. And even though sowing discord was part of a demon's job description, the fact that the three "people of the book", at each other's throats virtually everywhere else3, were getting along with a minimum of friction - sometimes even intermarrying and celebrating each other's holidays - was a minor miracle that Crowley secretly knew he wouldn't have risked damaging even under direct orders. _Anyway, the humans will likely mess it up at some point_ , he had told himself, _no need for me to get involved_. After all, you always got some bits of trouble here and there, like those wankers in Cordova insisting on getting themselves martyred. And the northern Christian kingdoms had been expanding southward over the last few centuries. But regardless of who was in charge, the various human factions had more or less maintained sanity for 700 years4. It had rather put the demon off his guard.

The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, and the bemused bartender had delivered two more bottles of apple brandy to the melancholic man in black, when a second stranger entered the tavern. He was another pale-skinned northerner, but shorter and rounder. With his silver hair his grey-and-white patterned clothes he seemed almost to glow. Rather odd clothes, the bartender noted: a knee-length wide-sleeved robe that was at least forty years out of style, even though the man himself looked younger than that. When his eye fell on the man in black he frowned, squared his shoulders, and strode forward as if planning to give the fellow a piece of his mind. But then he slowed, perhaps noticing the other's distraught demeanor and the forest of bottles surrounding him.

"Excuse me, Señor," the bartender said, sidling up to the silver-haired stranger. "Is that man a friend of yours?"

"Yes, unfortunately."

"Could you perhaps take him home? He's had far too much already, and...well, he's putting off the other customers."

The stranger sighed. "I'll see what I can do."

Crowley was staring at the wood of the table as if he thought it might divulge the secrets of the universe. He didn't even look up when he heard a chair pulled out.

"I was going to ask what kind of trick you were playing asking me here," a prim voice said, "But by the look of you, this wasn't what you were expecting either."

The demon looked up. "Angel..." His voice cracked, and when he spoke again there seemed to be genuine pain in it. "Why are they like this? And why are we s'pposed to enz..enc... _encourage_ them to be like this? And...and...don't tell me it's in..ineffable. I'm fed up to _here_ with ineffable!"

"Keep your voice down, dear boy. Let's not discuss this here. Can you sober up a smidge?"

"Don't want to sober up," the demon grumbled, "I spent good money getting properly drunk. Don't want to be sober for at least a week."

Aziraphale sighed. "Oh, have it your way. I've rented a room just down the block. If you just come with me we can have a rest and a chat there, hmm?"

Crowley squinted at the angel for a moment. "Really? Wouldn't that be cons..conz..consorting with the enemy?" he said bitterly.

The angel rolled his eyes. "Barely more than usual, dear. You're in no condition to be a threat to anyone's virtue right now. Come along."

He draped one of the demon's long arms around his neck and heaved him to his feet and together they staggered down the street. Getting up the stairs to the rented flat was the hardest part. After a few false starts, they finally succeeded after Crowley agreed to remove the alcoholic equivalent of a half bottle of brandy from his bloodstream. The angel miracled open the door, and dumped the inebriated demon into an armchair, which he promptly slithered off of. Literally.

Aziraphale glared at the large black snake that had coiled itself under the narrow bed. "Fine. Be like that."

After a moment's deliberation, he laid down above. He was quite tired and heart-weary himself, and there was no point in sitting in the chair and craning his neck to look at a version of Crowley that had no facial expressions. "Now. Suppose you tell me what the hell is going on?"

The snake made a noise somewhere between a groan and a hiss. "Nothing to do with me. But on the way here I got another one of those _commendations_. That's when I knew somethin' must-a gone bad."

"Yes, well. That seems to be catching," Aziraphale replied glumly.

~~~

They'd been having a fine time in Florence for about sixty years. The Arrangement was a few centuries old at this point, and they knew how to avoid getting in each other's way while still satisfying their respective head offices. The city was an oddity in many ways - a republic (of sorts), and a haven for artists and intellectuals. Especially those who were coming to be known, to Crowley's great amusement and approval, as _humanists_. Because the artists were mostly still working on religious themes, Aziraphale's superiors were more than happy to receive his reports of divine inspiration. And if he happened to pass on some requests for Classical texts, which Crowley just happened to find on his occasional excursions to the Muslim world, and those books happened to be conveniently "rediscovered" by their scholarly friends...well, no one had to know5. There was plenty of scope for Crowley's favorite forms of mischief too - namely, the sort of temptations that humans basically did for themselves. The Florentines had already invented banking, which meant plenty of opportunities for greed and corruption. With all that money itching to be spent, plenty of drunkenness, gluttony, and general debauchery just sort of happened as well. Mostly, though, he did what he'd always done since the Beginning: asking inconvenient questions and encouraging humans to do the same. He spent a lot of time at the Plato Academy among those devoted to doing just that.

The atmosphere of the city was congenial in other ways too. Perhaps it was a combination of the warm climate with the current celebration of beauty and humanity that made shows of affection seem more natural. Even the prim and proper Aziraphale found himself standing a bit closer, or linking arms with the demon from time to time, to Crowley's secret delight.

Even so, the pair was still considered a bit stiff by many of the locals. "You are...good friends with Signor Zeraphil, yes? Why do you not greet each other properly?" one of Crowley's dicing companions once asked, miming kissing someone on both cheeks.

"Just not the custom where we come from," the demon muttered. _And I'm not here to tempt myself_ , he added internally. _Not that the angel would stand for it anyway._ "Now are you going to make a bet or what?"

He did enjoy tweaking the angel a bit on the subject of physical affection though, and this wonderful permissive city certainly provided plenty of chances to do so. 

One such opportunity occurred after they'd been in town about five years. Aziraphale had invited Crowley to the unveiling of a new statue he'd been inspiring.

"It's meant to be a statue of David and Goliath, but _also_ an allegory of civic virtue triumphing over irrationality and brutality," the angel explained, bustling into the crowded courtyard of the Palazzo Medici. "I'm most excited to see what the artist came up with. It's...Oh my."

Crowley sauntered up behind him and grinned. "Hmm. Haven't seen anything like that since Rome."

The angel gave him a look. "Why do I doubt that?"

"Well...not in statue form anyway," the demon replied, his mischievous grin growing even wider. "What ah...sort of inspiration did you say you were providing?"

Aziraphale flushed slightly. "I merely suggested that the subject of David was due for a fresh look. Perhaps something less violent than some earlier interpretations."

"Well, that checks out." The demon circled the statue, giving it an appraising look, which only made the angel blush further. "You barely notice the severed head. And I like the pose - very confident, a bit saucy. I don't recall the real David having such a stylish hat, though. And of course fighting giants in the nude would be rather impractical."

"Quite," the angel replied stiffly.

A dark-eyed man with a double-pointed beard bustled up to them. "Signor Ziraphil! And Signor Crowley! I'm so pleased you both could come! Please - what do you think of my work?"

"It is certainly a novel interpretation, Signor Donatello6," the angel replied politely, "And very fine bronzework."

"Thank you Signor. And you," the artist said, turning to Crowley, "I must thank you for introducing me to my muse."

Crowley squinted at the face of the statue. "Ohh... I thought it looked familiar! I'm glad you and Nicos hit it off so well."

As the artist went off to greet more guests, Crowley turned around to see the angel glaring at him.

"What? I didn't know he was your project too. And you must admit it's an excellent statue. We really ought to collaborate more often."

"I hate you."

"No you don't," Crowley said confidently, "You don't hate anybody. It's not in your nature. Come on - it looks like they're serving some wine and nibblies over at the end of the courtyard. I bet they have some of those figs you like."

Now, of course, the angel and the demon didn't stay in Florence for the entire sixty years. Mortals tend to notice if you don't age over such a period. Every so often they took a break, coming back ten years later with a new haircut and wardrobe as their own cousin, son, or nephew. Aziraphale tended to go north - he'd always been fond of England, and liked to keep an eye on it. In one such journey, while passing through Mainz, he'd been delighted to note the increasing availability of books, and had made sure that some examples of Johannes Guttenberg's new moveable type press made their way to Venice and Florence. Crowley's reptilian nature drew him toward warmer regions. The papal state just below Florence was an excellent spot to work a few temptations7, and he also looked in on Sicily and Ottoman Constantinople.

During one such hiatus in the late 1870s Crowley met up with the angel in Avignon, France8.

"Should I ask what you've been up to?" Aziraphale inquired cautiously. He took a bite of pastry.

"Hanging about coastal Hispania, mostly," the demon replied, waving his glass vaguely. As usual, he was sticking to wine. "Do you know they've got quite a mania for exploration at the moment? Something about Ottoman tariffs driving up the price of spices or something."

"No doubt you've found some way to stir up mischief around that."

"A bit." Crowley searched for an anecdote that would be all right to tell the angel. "Oh, here's one you might appreciate. There was this one Genoese fellow, Christoforo something-or-other. Absolutely obsessed with gaining fame and fortune by finding a route to the Indies. Bit of a twat, really. So I gave him the wrong measurements for the Atlantic."

Aziraphale blinked. "You what?"

"I said it was half the distance to the Indies that it actually is." Crowley grinned. "He'll look like a complete idiot if he ever presents that nonsense to the court9. And if they do in some fit of insanity fund his venture, I'd love to see his face when he and his crew are three months out and there's nothing there. There will absolutely be a mutiny, you mark my words."

The angel had been doing some mental calculations. "But, my dear boy...there _is_ something there."

"Eh?"

"There's two whole continents smack in the middle between Hispania and the Indies. Don't you remember?"

The demon grimaced. It had been a while since he'd seen the planet from above, of course, but it was still a stupid mistake. Hell, he'd even been there a few times - enough to inspire a serpent cult10. That's what came of taking the Downstairs route to more distant places; you started to believe the human maps. Then he brightened up, having remembered something about the area he'd visited. "Well, never mind. Assuming he misses those little islands he'll end up in Aztec territory. That's nearly as good as a mutiny for making him shit his pants. Their priests never met a foreigner they didn't want to fillet." 

Crowley took a drink and shifted the topic. "So how are things in Florence? Seen anything of that Leonardo chap recently?"

"Oh, didn't you hear? He moved to Milan a few years back. Apparently the Medici were getting a bit annoyed at his tendency to hop between projects without finishing most of them."

"Well, their loss. Did you ever see his design for a flying machine? Never going to work unless humans invent a stronger form of wood and a faster way to turn a crank, of course, but impressive all the same."

The angel looked troubled. "Yes...but I rather hope those war machines he promised the Duke of Milan remain one of those unfinished projects."

Crowley gave Aziraphale a quizzical look.

"Well, he's such a gentle soul at heart," the angel said unhappily, " _You've_ seen him buy birds at the market just to sketch them and let them loose."

"Hmm. Doesn't eat meat, either, as I recall."

"Exactly! I don't know why he has to draw those horrid things."

"That's humanity, Angel. Heaven and hell in one. And taking the hellish side often pays better."

Aziraphale felt he ought to argue that point, but it was the sort of issue that could easily turn into an all-night debate, and he didn't have the energy. Instead he sighed and remarked: "Sandalphon's been hanging about."

Crowley frowned. If there was one angel he really didn't trust, it was that one. "Why? Florence is your territory."

"Well, yes, but he implied heavily that some in head office felt there was far too much sin and debauchery going on, and that I might need a hand in clearing it up." He gave the demon a judgmental glance.

"Hey, don't blame me, I've been gone for nearly a decade, remember?" An unpleasant thought struck him. "So what's his plan to clean up the city? Because the last time he took on that sort of mission I seem to recall a large amount of burning sulfur being involved."

Aziraphale winced. "That was all a terrible misunderstanding. No, I'm sure he's learned some subtlety since then. He said he'd persuaded the Medicis to bring in some reformist preacher. A friar Savonarola. I don't know that much about him. They say he's a bit grim, but I understand he's very much against clerical corruption, which I can't argue with."

The demon glowered. A _misunderstanding_? He happened to know that Sandalphon had been perpetuating that same misunderstanding among theologians for several millennia despite Aziraphale's efforts to clear it up. The results had gotten countless humans killed over the years and had even threatened to get his friend discorporated multiple times. "Sandalphon can't have changed his style that much - when was the last time you saw him get upset over the church not taking care of the poor or whatnot? I suspect there's more to it. Keep an eye on that preacher. If things start to get a bit sticky, you should get out of there. Just as well Leo's already gone, but maybe tip the nod to your other artist friends too."

Aziraphale frowned. "What are you talking about, dear boy?"

Crowley sighed. This was innocence verging on obtuseness. But the angel always got embarrassed when the assumptions humans made about him were mentioned, so instead he said: "I'm just saying, you probably don't want to find yourself butting heads with Sandalphon. There might come a point when it's best to just move on."

A thought struck him. "Why don't we meet up in Hispania? You'd love it - particularly Sevilla or Granada. Good wine, beautiful architecture. I've heard the Great Mosque of Cordova is worth a look11. And the gardens...meant to evoke The Garden, you know," he added with a touch of nostalgia, "And books! The Emir of Granada has the most wonderful library. Or his grandfather had, anyway. Whatever. I'm sure you could charm him into letting you have a look."

Aziraphale smiled, despite himself. "Your temptations are on point as always, my dear. I do feel I should go back to Florence for the present. But I will certainly bear it in mind."

Crowley shrugged. "Suit yourself. I'll be staying here for a bit, so send me a note if you change your mind."

Aziraphale returned to Florence, and for a while things seemed to go on as usual. After going to a few of Fra Savonarola's fiery sermons and deciding that his critiques of the excesses of the rich were not unreasonable but that his apocalyptic prophecies were complete bunk12 the angel stopped paying close attention, though he was vaguely aware that the friar did seem increasingly popular. He only truly began to worry when he stopped by Sandro Botticelli's studio to have a look at his latest painting.

"I call it 'Lamentation over the dead Christ'," the artist said. "What do you think?"

The angel frowned. He had always thought a characteristic and delightful feature of Botticelli's paintings was their bright and airy nature. Regardless of subject, the figures were usually lit by pleasant sunlight and surrounded by flowers and trees. In this painting, though, the lighting was yellowish and sickly, and the figures stood against the blackness of the mouth of the tomb. "Well, you've captured the fabrics beautifully," Aziraphale said carefully, "And the grief of the women is most convincing. But, ah...it's rather darker than your usual, isn't it? Even given the nature of the subject matter, I mean."

The artist nodded. "Precisely, Signor Ziraphil. I have come to realize the frivolousness of some of my previous works."

"Frivolousness! My dear chap, they were perfection13."

Sandro shook his head. "No, my friend. The good Fra Savonarola has led to realize the error of my ways. By featuring the pagan gods I may have drawn men toward them. Even painting the Virgin and the saints with the faces of the sinful men and women of our time is dangerously close to idolatry. So no more!"

"Hmm. Well, your conviction is admirable," the angel replied, more disturbed than he would have cared to admit, "I, ah, I must be going. Best of luck!"

Over the next few months, Aziraphale noticed a strange mood falling over the city. There was a grimness to it that had previously been absent. Despite the angel's efforts to spread goodwill, scuffles frequently broke out between the followers of Savonarola and those who contemptuously called them "snivelers". The threat of an invasion from France only heightened this mood, and lent confidence to the friar's apocalyptic talk of "the sword of the Lord over the earth, quickly and soon". 

Gangs of young men began roaming the streets to enforce the friar's vision of morality. Aziraphale noticed one such group accosting a young woman, berating her for her immodest dress - by which they seemed to mean loose curls and jewelry. "Whore of Babylon!" one shouted, "Don't you know the Day of Judgement is coming?"

"You there! There's no need for that sort of language," the angel said, stepping up to them firmly. "And don't brandish that stick at me, young man, or your parents will hear about it."

"Silence, sodomite!" one of the other youths shouted.

The angel's jaw dropped. "I say! I think you must have me confused with someone else."

"Small chance of that, sinner. You are a glutton and a drunkard, a purveyor of pagan texts. We know all about you and the filth you associate with. But your time here is done. We will make Florence a new Jerusalem, clean and holy."

The girl had wisely decided to leg it during this speech, and Aziraphale had to agree that a strategic retreat was a wise move. He snapped his fingers, pausing time so no one noticed him flying home14, which left the gang blinking in confusion at nothing. Once there, the angel barred the door and sat down to write a letter. Then he packed a trunk with his favorite books and artworks, adding a spare set of clothes to the top as an afterthought. The rest of his collection went into four different crates, addressed to correspondents in Rome, Milan, Sicily, and Venice. And not a moment too soon. Two days later, as he climbed into the coach that would take him to a port in Livorno, the angel could smell the smoke of burning paper and paint rising from the first "bonfire of the vanities".

~~~

"I didn't think I should go into all that in the letter, but...well, that's why I decided to take you up on your suggestion," Aziraphale concluded.

"When did you arrive?"

"December of last year. My ship got in at Malaga, and then I rode up towards Granada."

"Ah. Did you get to ssee the library?"

"Unfortunately, it was on fire."

Crowley's serpent head poked up over the edge of the mattress. "What!?"

"Well, not immediately, and not the whole building. But... Well, you see, when I arrived the city was under siege. I flew over the wall to see what was going on. The people were just beside themselves - they knew they were going to lose. There was nowhere left for reinforcements to come from. I offered to serve as a messenger, and we managed to negotiate a treaty that said Ferdinand and Isabella's forces wouldn't sack the city, and that its Muslim residents would be allowed to practice their faith in peace. The Emir and his family slipped away, and the gates were opened."

The angel sighed. "Unfortunately, the treaty wasn't honored. It...well, it could have been worse. No wading through blood like at the fall of Jerusalem. But they did ransack the place and start burning heretical texts. Well...they _said_ they were heretical, but most of the soldiers couldn't read Hebrew or Arabic so they were just randomly burning poetry and medical texts and gardening manuals. When I tried to point that out they got rather hostile. So I grabbed a few of the rarer volumes and got out15."

Aziraphale's voice was steady, but Crowley's keen night vision could see the tears on his cheeks. He had an impulse to change back, to wrap his arms around the angel and grieve together. But even through the remnant alcoholic haze he realized that would probably be misinterpreted. So he settled for laying his scaly head on his friend's hand. "I'm sssorry, Angel."

"It's all right. It was a bit of a shock, of course. I thought I'd left that sort of thing behind. But...well, I'm sure you know it got worse from there. Have you seen the port here? All those people trying to find a ship to take them somewhere, anywhere else. And just the...the pain. The fear. You can feel it everywhere."

Crowley hissed. "I know." He coiled back in on himself.

~~~

He had begun packing immediately when he received Aziraphale's letter at the beginning of the year, his delight that the angel would be joining him narrowly winning out over concern over why he had decided to leave. But only a few days after he'd ridden out from Avignon, he got another note. It blew in through the hearth of the inn where he was staying, the following message written in fiery letters:

_To the demon known as Crowley, AKA the Serpent_

_The congratulations of hell for your excellent work in sowing distrust, dissension, and corruption among the mortals of Hispania. We anticipate the situation will secure many souls for our Master._

_All hail Satan._

_Duke Hastur_

Crowley had dropped the letter with a hiss, and not just because it had begun to self-immolate. Something fairly major must have happened during his last visit to the peninsula, but he had no idea what it was. _Shit. What are they talking about? And the angel is on his way because I said what a safe and pleasant place it was!_ He snapped his fingers, stowing his luggage in the attic of the inn with an "ignore this" charm on it. Then he opened the window and jumped out. Demons didn't fly much, typically, but Crowley thought he'd better find out what was up as soon as possible. He'd never much cared for horses anyway.

The mystery didn't take long to unravel. Apparently the royal pair had got it into their heads that people who had converted from Judaism to Christianity were backsliding and therefore some kind of a threat. The logic seemed a bit weak, but then it generally was in such cases. In 1478, while Crowley had been obliviously pranking would-be explorers, the pope approved an Inquisition. It wasn't the first, of course. The first had been directed at the Cathars in southern France. An odd bunch - Crowley thought their stance that matter itself was sinful a bit extreme. But so was dealing with that heresy by setting them on fire.

What felt so devastating about this was not the torture or the executions. Though what he had seen of all that was rather stomach churning; One of the best reasons to stay on earth rather than go back to hell was to get away from those sorts of screams. It was the sense that something rare and precious had been lost. The soap bubble had popped, and this place was going to become just like the rest of the continent. But what had really driven him to drink was the proclamation that had come in March: All Jews must convert or leave. Going meant leaving everything but a few personal belongings and heading off...where? Most of the kingdoms of Europe already excluded them. Staying and converting meant more targets for the Inquisition. _Whoever thought that one up_ , he thought, _must have been either incredibly stupid or actively malicious_.

~~~

"Did...did you really think I'd bring you here as a joke?" the demon asked carefully.

Aziraphale sighed. "Not really. But I couldn't find you for a while, and then yesterday I happened on...well, they call it an act of faith16, but...it made me rather angry."

Crowley hissed. "Do you know they've figured out a way to drown ssomeone without drowning them?"

Aziraphale frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"I sssuppose I sshould ssay to make them _feel_ like they are drowning without killing them," the demon clarified, adding. "Probably. For the most part. Aren't they clever, thesse mortals?"

Aziraphale stared at the ceiling for a while, wondering how that would work, and deciding that he'd rather not know.

Then something about the bitterness in the demon's voice struck him.

"You actually _like_ them, don't you? The humans, I mean."

"I _don't_ ," the voice under the bed said sulkily. "They're vicious little sshits."

Aziraphale didn't know why he'd never voiced that thought before, but he was sure he was right; it was blindingly obvious when he thought about Crowley's reaction to various events over the centuries. "You're a demon. You're supposed to like seeing humans be awful. But it's like you're...disappointed in them. You like annoying them, you like tempting them to do little things they think they shouldn't, but I would swear you don't like seeing them be really bad."

"Sstop it," Crowley hissed, "Next thing you'll be ssaying I have a ssoft heart or ssomething. And then I _will_ have to sstrangle you."

"Well, then I won't," Aziraphale replied, smiling to himself17.

There was silence for a bit, and then Crowley said: "It'ss just sssuch a waste, don't you think? I mean, here are these beingss that live, what, thirty or forty years on average, sssixty, ssseventy years if they are lucky. Then four out of ten of them end up tormented for eternity, and the rest go off to...well, I don't know, actually. But I hope their section of heaven is lesss dull than the one _you_ get. But they've got free will, and a few decades to do whatever they like. They've got minds and hands that can create the most incredible things. And they can be kinder and funnier and more inventive than any other ssort of being. Sso why do so many of them sspend their time either ignoring those giftss or using that creativity to find new ways to hurt each other?"

"Be fair. It's only a few of them that seem really committed to doing harm."

"But that'ss almost worse. Those few do a lot of damage, and the good oness and the normal oness get hurt. Or they get tricked or bullied into joining in. I mean, look at this place. Hundreds of yearss of evidence that working together is better than...than picking sides, that it can build ssomething beautiful. But no - the bosses sssay all that's worth nothing. It's all about sshowing you're the best, even if you're not."

Crowley faltered briefly, unsure for a moment if he was still talking about the humans. But he was angry and on a roll. "And! And if we're talking ssides, I blame yours for a good chunk of it all."

"I beg your pardon!"

"Well, look at how many of the viciouss ones use Her as a cover. Doesn't matter if they're wrong, or that _we_ get them eventually. Your lot don't call them on it, and people look at those wankers and think: 'Hey, that'ss what we're sssupposed to think is good, I guess.' Sssure, they have free will, but that'ss tipping the scales. Making the game too hard. 'Don't trussst your conscience, trust this man in a funny hat'"

Aziraphale didn't know what to say. The demon's tirade had uncomfortably echoed some of his own thoughts that he'd always feared to put into words. So he just stayed silent, staring up at the rough beams of the ceiling. The silence went on for a long time, until the angel thought he could hear a sound that might be what happened when snakes snored. He sighed. Well, yesterday he'd put a request in for an audience with heaven. Perhaps they _could_ get this all sorted out. After all, a few well-placed visions...

A votive candle flared into life on the table in the corner. Aziraphale had nearly six thousand years' practice not swearing, so this sign of an incoming call from heaven merely elicited an "Oh... _sugar_." He jumped to his feet and tugged the blanket down. The angel did not want to explain why he had a giant snake, let alone The Serpent, under his bed. "Don't move," he whispered, though he was fairly sure Crowley had passed out at this point. Then he sketched out a circle filled with a variety of complex symbols on the floor in chalk and lit the rest of the candles.

"Principality Aziraphale reporting. Who is this?"

A bluish-white beam of light filled the circle. "What was taking you so long?" the voice of the Archangel Gabriel said. There was something about his tone that always made Aziraphale feel rather small and inadequate, but he squared his shoulders and replied: "Just had to draw the circle. This is not the time or place to have the humans suspecting one of practicing witchcraft, you know. Or kabbalah," he added pointedly.

"Why _are_ you in Sevilla anyway?"

Well...I heard reports that the Enemy had plans afoot. Allegedly, the forces of hell have been most pleased with what the demon Crowley has done with this new inquisition."

"Really?" Gabriel sounded puzzled. "We hadn't heard anything about his involvement."

"Well, he's definitely here," Aziraphale replied, the undeniable truth of the statement giving greater confidence to his tone, "And I thought I ought to come over and, you know, thwart his wiles."

"What does that mean, exactly?" the voice of Gabriel said.

"Well, as you are no doubt aware, the king and queen have ordered all Jews to leave the kingdom or convert..."

"That seems like two fair choices. What's the problem?"

"Fair in theory, maybe. I don't think you quite understand the situation on the ground," Aziraphale said doggedly. "It is chaos down here. There's eighty thousand Jews and two hundred thousand _conversos_ getting their lives turned upside down - and that's if they don't turn on the Muslims next, which I doubt. You... _we've_ told the mortals that steadfast faith in the face of adversity is a virtue. But not everyone who wants to go can afford a ticket, or there aren't enough berths..."

"I suppose that is why we've received receipts for 443 miracles in the past week, including 210 boat tickets, 80 luckily-found gold coins, 52 charitable impulses in ship's captains and the like, and 101 people deciding _not_ to take a trip?" Gabriel said wearily.

"Freeing up berths, yes."

The angel couldn't see Gabriel's face, but he could hear the long-suffering sigh. "Aziraphale, you can't go interfering in human affairs this way. That's not how we do things now."

"Sorry. I do seem to remember something about a covenant...or is this a new Exodus situation? You know I don't get all the higher-level briefings." The angel's tone was so bland and innocent one might almost miss the sting behind the words. "But anyway, that's just the immediate problem. About this inquisition situation. They are arresting people they say have only pretended to convert. Throwing them in jail for months, even burning them at the stake!"

If a voice could shrug, Gabriel's did. "Well, a false conversion is a lie, and lying is a sin."

Aziraphale shouldn't have been surprised at how casual Gabriel sounded; he'd known him long enough. But it was still shocking. "But don't you see - anyone who can't or doesn't want to leave is essentially _forced_ to lie. And if they aren't lying when they're arrested, they will be after being tortured! You know very well that threats don't make for a true change of heart. Not to mention that there are people giving false witness against their neighbors out of fear, envy, or hatred. And the inquisitors don't get paid, but they can confiscate property, so there is a perverse incentive to convict the innocent. Hell must really be celebrating all those sins piling up."

"So what exactly are you suggesting we do?" Gabriel interrupted.

Aziraphale suspected from his tone that they were reaching the point where the Archangel might agree to something just to make this conversation stop. "I'm suggesting we work on softening the hearts of the clergy and the royal family. Help them come to the realization that these harsh measures are breeding more sinful behavior than they are eliminating."

"We've had no orders from Higher Up to interfere in this matter."

"Well, at least let me try," Aziraphale wheedled, "You're right - small miracles are inefficient and intrusive. But if I could only influence a few people at the top..."

"Yes, fine, if you must. But we'll expect regular reports."

The light snapped off. Aziraphale blew out the candles, staggered over to the arm chair, and buried his face in his shaking hands. He couldn't believe he'd just talked to an Archangel like that! But it did seem to have worked...

"Is he gone?" said a voice from under the bed.

"He was never really _here_ , but yes."

Crowley slithered up the bedpost and reconstituted himself sitting cross-legged across from the angel.

"How much of that did you hear?" Aziraphale asked.

"Most of it. That celestial beam is...well, not exactly painful, but it doesn't make for pleasant dreams." Crowley looked fondly at his angel. Of course he had spent the last week trying to save as many people as possible. He'd have expected no less from a being who gave away his flaming sword because the first two humans looked cold. But all he said was: "Good job standing up to that violet-eyed twat, by the way."

Aziraphale huffed out a breath. "I just...I can't believe he didn't _care_."

"I can." The demon arched an eyebrow. He seemed to have sobered up considerably. "So...you're going to be reforming the system from within? Good luck with that."

"Well, what do _you_ intend to do, pray?"

"Not likely."

Crowley wrinkled his brow and ran a hand through his hair. It was shoulder-length this century, and feathered around the sides of his face. "I've been thinking. I obviously can't go interfering with the Inquisition here directly. I thought perhaps I could mess with the priests involved and get them to turn on each other - my side is all for tempting priests, after all. But given that the whole thing is supposedly my idea in the first place, that would raise too many questions."

Aziraphale folded his arms. "So after all that drama, you're just going to leave it to me?"

The demon waggled his head. "Not exactly. What this place had going for it for so long was the notion that sharing ideas, even ideas that challenged your beliefs, could make you better. But they were the only ones - or at least the only ones nearby - thinking like that. Now, think about what those humanist fellows were working on in Florence. Can you really imagine people setting each other on fire over whose version of God is better if that sort of thing caught on more widely?"

The angel sighed. "That experiment is over now, unfortunately."

"Eh, not necessarily. It's basically just one guy who's the problem over there. If I can get Florence back on track, help those ideas spread, maybe this place will come back to its senses too, eventually."

Aziraphale looked skeptical. "Hmmph. And how do you plan to do that?"

"Well, from what you've said, my guess is that Fra Savonarola's weak point is spiritual pride. He thinks he's a prophet, and that he's meant to turn Florence into some kind of earthly paradise, doesn't he? Maybe I could push him more in that direction."

The angel looked confused. "You want to make him _worse_?"

"In that specific way, yes. The church doesn't like it when preachers overstep and start going off and saying whatever they like, you know. That would make _him_ the heretic and...oh! Oh!"

The demon rocked up to his feet and started pacing around the room.

"What?"

"I've just remembered - they've elected a new pope this year!"

"So?"

"Well, the old one wouldn't have been any help to your plan or mine. He's the one who gave permission for this whole Inquisition thing, plus he approved a bunch of witch hunting up north AND a crusade against the Waldensians18. Plus he was quite corrupt - created a bunch of new church offices just so he could sell them off. And absolutely no sense of humor, either."

Aziraphale's brow wrinkled. "How do you know all this?"

The demon waved a hand. "I got the party invitation when he turned up Down Below. They always think a pope is a big coup, even though we must have quite a collection by now. Anyway, what do you know about the new guy?"

Aziraphale searched his memory. He could vaguely recall getting a memo on the subject. "Alexander VI. That's...Rodrigo Borgia, isn't it?"

Crowley grinned. "Exactly! Now _that_ is a pope we can work with."

"I don't follow."

"Well, first, he's sixty years old and Spanish. That means he grew up in the _old_ Spain. Hell, he's even rumored to have Jewish ancestry. Not that that necessarily means anything - so does that asshole Torquemada. But still, probably doesn't hurt. Second, he's known to be a great appreciator of the arts. And he has at least one mistress and a bunch of recognized illegitimate children."

"What does that have to do with..."

Crowley rolled his eyes at how thick the angel was being. "Come _on_ \- Savonarola is going to _hate_ him. And vice versa." He rubbed his hands together. "Oh, this is going to be fun..."

The demon's glee was a little disconcerting, but Aziraphale was relieved to see his friend acting like himself again.

"Are you actually planning to talk to the pope?"

"Yes. And Fra Savonarola. Although I think a change of costume is in order..."

Crowley waved a hand up and down over himself. His close-fitting black doublet and hose became a long priest's cassock with a fitted top and long skirts, and his rounded cap a wide-brimmed hat. His hair shortened as well. He grinned at the angel's vaguely shocked expression. "How do I look?"

 _Surprisingly good. Convincing, that is. Surprisingly convincing_. "Are you sure this is wise? You can't go into churches!"

"Eh, I'll figure something out. Clergy don't stay on consecrated ground all day, after all. At least Borgia certainly doesn't."

Aziraphale examined the costume with a critical eye. "They're going to notice if you don't at least have a cross."

"Good point. Would you do the honors? No blessing, please. I don't want to come out in a rash."

"I really shouldn't..."

"Oh come _on_! You know I can't do it myself."

The angel sighed and snapped his fingers. A crucifix now glimmered around the demon's neck.

Crowly cracked his knuckles. "Right. Let's do this."

~~~

Crowley winged his way back to Florence, touching down in a wood just outside the city. Ordinarily, he would have worried more about leaving the angel on his own. Aziraphale had a distinct tendency to wander innocently into dangerous human affairs. But this time they both knew what they were up against. Besides, unlike some of the other reasons humans had come up with for setting fire to one another, "not acting Catholic enough" was probably not going to be a problem for the angel19. The demon "borrowed" a mule from a nearby farm and rode up to the gates of Florence.

"Good afternoon, Father," the guard at the gate said. It was always a good idea to be polite to clergy. Especially these days.

"Greetings, my son," Crowley said in a mild tone. "I wonder if you might help me."

"Of course, Father."

The demon smiled. "I was hoping to meet Fra Savonarola. I've heard so much about him... Do you know where I might find him?"

The demon surveyed the friar sitting across the table from him from behind his dark glasses. Girolamo Savonarola had a large hooked nose and intense eyes, and wore a Dominican habit with a black hood. The table was bare. Crowley had been hoping for some wine after his journey, but the only thing on offer had been water. However, this had given him the chance to wave it aside with the pronouncement that he thirsted only to learn how to better spread righteousness. He cringed internally saying it, but it seemed to go over well.

"So...you are visiting from England, they say," said the friar.

"Yes," Crowley lied. "We heard tell that you were building a New Jerusalem here in Florence. Seemed worth a look, I thought."

"Indeed. Father Antony, would you agree that our world has become corrupted? That evil men hoard up wealth, oppressing the poor?"

Crowley nodded slowly. "That does often seem to happen."

"Good, good. I thought I could see from your simplicity of dress that you are not one of these priests who drape themselves in gaudy trappings, keep mistresses, and otherwise debase their office."

"Er, no, I suppose not." The demon coughed. "But please tell me...what _exactly_ are your plans for creating this New Jerusalem?"

Savonarola's eyes lit with fervor. "The city must first be cleansed of its wickedness. That is underway even now. The bankers and the moneylenders, the gamblers and whores and sodomites, are being driven from the city or brought to repentance. The symbols of vanity are being consigned to the flames."

"Those vanities including makeup and pagan artwork and such, I have heard. Does it also include books?"

Savonarola snorted. "It would be good for religion if many books that seem useful were destroyed. When there were not so many books, and not so many arguments and disputes, religion grew more quickly. The only good thing that we owe to Plato and Aristotle is the rhetoric we can use against heretics. They and other philosophers are now in hell."

 _Yikes,_ the demon thought. _No wonder Sandalphon likes this guy._ "Right. Tough love - I get it."

"But when all these things are done, Florence will be richer, more powerful, more glorious than ever, by God's grace. Already we feed the poor and find work for the starving. Look around - where once young men and women flaunted themselves in garish and immodest dress and sang wanton songs, now you see the beauty of austerity, and hear the sounds of hymns. Florence will be the reformation of all Italy, and from here the renewal will begin and spread everywhere."

Crowley kept his face neutral, but wondered to himself why so many people assumed the second bit had to go hand in hand with the first. He leaned forward. "And you've...seen this in your visions, I've heard?"

The friar nodded. "Oh yes. For a long time by divine inspiration I have predicted many future events in various ways. They showed me the coming of a new Cyrus from the North, and a new Flood that would wash the earth clean. This I believe to be the King of France, who even now sweeps southward. The church will be reformed, but Italy will first be scourged, and her chastisement is imminent."

Crowley nodded. "Really.... That is most wondrous, Fra Savona. I wonder... have you ever thought of writing a book of your prophecies?"

Savonarola shook his head. "I have always felt that would be casting pearls before swine."

"Ah, but think how much good it might do in...in spreading your renewal," the demon replied in his most persuasive voice. "You could even send a copy to the new pope..."

~~~

In a dungeon in Toledo, Ibrahim Ladesma woke to find a figure in white bending over him. For a moment, he wondered if had died, if this was heaven. But no. The robe was a white woolen habit, and the halo a crown of tonsured silver curls. The cold stone walls and the iron bars were still there...though he did feel strangely warmer, and less fearful, than he had before.

The strange monk handed Ibrahim a cup of water. "Take heart, my son," he said - almost sadly, the prisoner thought.

"You! Who are you, and what are you doing?" A face framed in a dark hood glared at them through the barred window in the door.

The strange monk straightened up. "They call me Brother Ezra Felos. I am ministering to this prisoner."

The Dominican frowned. "Why? Who gave you permission?"

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. "Who gave your founder permission to sell his school books to feed the poor, or to preach to the Cathars to try to save them from the flames?"

 _Se_ _ñor holier-than-thou_ , the Dominican thought. "So you take orders directly from God, then?"

"Only as we all do; From the voice the Almighty left in each of our hearts, that tells us the value of love and mercy," the stranger said, sliding past into the corridor. He patted the inquisitor on the shoulder. "You should try listening to it more."

Strangely, rather than annoyance, the inquisitor just felt a pang of sadness. 

~~~

When 'Father Antony Creely' reached Rome, he was surprised to find that the streets felt more crowded than they had been only a few years before. As he strolled along the Tiber wondering about this, he heard someone singing a mournful song to the accompaniment of a lute:

_Arvolés yoran por luvias_

_I muntanyas por ayres_

_Ansí yoran los mis ojos_

_Por ti, kerid' amante_

_Torno i digo ke va ser de mí._

_En tierras ajenas yo me vo morir_ 20

The demon stopped dead in his tracks. The heartland of the Catholic Church was the last place on earth he had expected to hear a Sephardic song. Yet there it was. He smiled to himself. This looked promising.

If he wanted to reach the new pope, the way in was clearly through his family. Many churchmen had affairs and even children, but most tried to hush it up. Rodrigo Borgia had settled his most long-standing mistress, Vannozza de Cattanei, in a former cardinal's palace. Reportedly, their romance had long since cooled and he was rumored to have a new mistress, but he clearly still respected her as the mother of four of his children. In fact, all four were recognized as Borgias, and he had recently named one a cardinal and one a Duke.

Crowley found the latter son in an upper-class gambling house. Juan Borgia was initially suspicious of the foreign priest in the dark glasses, having had to spend far too much of his life with members of the clergy who looked down their noses at him and his siblings. But soon 'Father Antony's' good taste in wine and surprisingly irreverent humor won him over, and he found himself inviting the stranger over for dinner at his mother's house. Vannozza proved to be a still-handsome woman in late middle age with blonde hair and dark eyes - features shared by her thirteen-year-old daughter. A sharp little thing. Almost immediately after they sat down to dine she asked: "Why are you wearing those spectacles?"

"Lucrezia, dear, that's not a polite way to talk to our guest!" Vannozza admonished.

"Well, I wonder he can see anything in this light!" the girl protested.

"Medical condition," Crowley explained. "My eyes are extremely sensitive. But you needn't worry." He grinned. "I can see quite well that you will be a force to be reckoned with one day."

The dinner was an unqualified success. When Crowley inquired near the end if there was any possibility of meeting His Holiness, Vannozza didn't hesitate to promise an introduction. The unusually dashing priest reminded her quite a lot of Rodrigo in his youth; they ought to get along well.

The new pope was a plump, hawk-nosed man, still vigorous despite his age. He fixed the visitor with an intelligent look. "So, Father Creely, Vannozza tells me you have traveled all the way from England?"

"Indeed, your Holiness," Crowley replied smoothly, "The Archbishop of Canterbury's secretary asked me to undertake the journey, as he wished to have a more first-hand account of the state of things in distant parts of Christendom. Before coming to Rome, I passed through Spain, Avignon, and Florence, among other places."

"You must be thirsty then. Wine?" A servant brought forward a tray.

The demon smiled and took a glass21. "Thank you, your Holiness. I don't mind if I do."

They chatted briefly about the different customs and the art and architecture of the various lands the supposed priest had visited. Borgia was pleased with 'Father Creely's' enthusiasm for his homeland.

"That reminds me," Crowley said casually, "Is it true that you've settled nine thousand Spanish Jews in Rome and the Papal States? With license to practice their own rites free of interference?"

Borgia looked narrowly at his visitor a moment, but he saw none of the judgment he might have expected from a northerner. "Yes. They arrived desperate and nearly destitute. Christian charity demanded nothing less. After all, was Our Lord himself not an exile in Egypt in his infancy?"

Crowley nodded. "Very well said, your Holiness. Although, if I may...there are too few men of the cloth who see things that way. That being the reason for the distress of these wretches, after all."

Borgia's face darkened. "Indeed. But my predecessor gave license to the local rulers and bishops to carry out this Inquisition, and it would not be politic to reverse that decision."

The demon inclined his head. "Perhaps. But I am sure your Holiness has heard word of the abuses that are occurring. And if perhaps you think the tales of these refugees are exaggerated, let me say that what I saw in Toledo and Sevilla would rend your heart. Honest folk are imprisoned and tortured because their neighbor said they didn't see any smoke rising from their chimneys on Saturdays. Moreover, it is becoming a widespread saying among the people that the Inquisition was invented only to rob people, as the inquisitors seem to target first those folk with enough property to be worth confiscating. Such things reflect poorly on the Mother Church, don't you think?"

Borgia looked thoughtful. "Hmm. This may well be worth further investigation. Zeal in the faith is laudable, but when applied in a simple-minded way can damage itself."

Crowley nodded, and sipped his wine. "Speaking of which...Have you been following what's been happening in Florence?"

"Not in great detail. I have a great many matters to attend to, as I'm sure you're aware."

"Of course. Well, there is a certain Friar Savonarola who appears now to be the de facto ruler of the city. Quite the zealous reformer. He harps on quite a lot about the corruption of the church and evil influences of - well, everything from Plato to fashionable hats."

Borgia shrugged. "That last part sounds a bit extreme. But I can't say I entirely disagree about the first. As you say, maintaining the reputation of the church is important. I've been thinking of putting together a commission of, say, five or six cardinals of good repute to draft some reform measures. At the very least, it might be a good idea to prohibit the selling of church offices and limit the size of household a cardinal or bishop can maintain."

Crowley shrugged. "I doubt that would be enough to satisfy Fra Savonarola."

"Why do you say that?"

"Apparently, he's been calling you the Antichrist."

Borgia nearly snorted his wine. "Really? That's a new one."

"He claims to have apocalyptic visions. As a result, he seems almost to welcome the invasion from France that is now ongoing. As you say, probably not ill-intentioned, but potentially a disruptive influence, wouldn't you say?"

The pope frowned. "Indeed. I suppose _another_ investigation is in order."

~~~

'Brother Ezra Felos' had been making the rounds of the inquisitorial courts, softening hearts as best he could. As with the first inquisitor, he reminded the Dominicans of St. Dominic's desire to save heretics from destruction body and soul. The Franciscans were reminded of their founder's gentle nature and his focus on helping the poor and on celebrating the natural world22. And everyone got a reminder that they had a conscience; that the knowledge of good and evil was inside them, regardless of what anyone else said.

It was slow going, though. Aziraphale had to move frequently, both to reach new people and to avoid suspicion. While his aura of genial earnestness and his impressive memory for scripture and history went a long way toward keeping him safe, it was only a matter of time before someone would think to ask: "Wait...what order did you say you belonged to, again?" It was hard to tell if any of it was having a broader impact. The denunciations and arrests, the torture and executions, continued, and the innocent continued to suffer. But luckily not everyone requires angelic intervention to listen to their own conscience. Aziraphale was heartened to notice that some Spaniards were stepping up to help their persecuted neighbors. A few did so in a risky and public way through writing and speeches, but more acted quietly - serving as character witnesses for those who were accused, or helping to hide those who were in danger and get them to safety across the sea.

Two soldiers knocked on the door of a house in Cordova. Politely, though - the resident _was_ a monk. A mild, pleasant-looking fellow in a white robe opened the door.

"Brother Ezra?"

"Yes? How can I help you?"

"We're looking for one Rebecca Macanas, on orders of the Inquisition," one of the guards said, "Her house is over there, but it does not appear to be occupied. You wouldn't happen to know where she is?"

"Oh, dear. I couldn't say for sure, but I _think_ I heard someone say that she was going to visit an aunt in Albacete."

The guard nodded. "Thank you for your cooperation, Brother."

Aziraphale closed the door, and through the window watched the two walk off toward their headquarters. Then he made up a tray of wine and bread and a small bottle of milk, and climbed up the narrow stairs that led to the attic.

A dark-haired woman with two small children looked up at him with anxious eyes from a pallet bed in the corner. "Have they gone?"

"Yes, for now," the angel replied, passing over the tray. "We should be able to slip out this evening and make it to the river. Take the ferry to Sevilla, and head toward the cathedral. At the street on the north side, ask for Pilar Montalban. She will see you to the docks and get you on a ship to Tangier."

After all, Aziraphale told himself, Gabriel had only prohibited him from using miracles to rescue people. He hadn't said anything about not doing it the human way.

~~~

Crowley's next stop was Venice, already the printing capitol of Italy. He wandered across the whole city, performing various temptations and dropping off certain thought-provoking texts23 where they were likely to be "discovered". But his particular target was one Aldus Manutius, whose printing workshop had recently begun printing pocket-sized editions of Greek and Latin classics. Aldus was pleased to get a large order from the stranger: "For gifts", as he explained.

"A fine choice, Signor," he replied, "I like to say the small size of their dimensions invites one to reading in moments of repose; very useful for the busy gentleman."

"Easy to conceal, too," the man in black muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. So I can pick these up in three weeks, then?"

Over the next few years, the demon visited Naples, Milan, and Genoa, as well as universities like that in Bologna24. It was a zigzagging path, frequently interrupted by events like the invasion from France that briefly captured Rome and Naples and was then repelled by an alliance between the Pope, the Holy Roman Empire25,Venice, Milan, and Spain, followed by the efforts of Cesare Borgia to take control of the city states of Romagna and Marche in the north. Or rather, it was not his travel itself that was interrupted - conflict zones did after all give a good bit of scope for the more expected demonic activities. But after passing through Crowley could return to his other mission, giving a poke here and there wherever progress seemed sluggish.

~~~

The year was 1505, and two figures sitting at a tavern in Florence caught the eye of the bartender. They couldn't have been more different in most respects. The plump one in an out-of-date but spotless light-colored robe perched primly on his chair, the lanky one in black sprawled across his as if he wasn't quite sure how chairs even worked. But though their ages were hard to guess, they had the same worn look, like they had been through the wars. _Well, no wonder - so have we all,_ the bartender thought, delivering a second bottle. The two seemed to have a similar thirst as well.

Aziraphale poured them each a glass, and gestured at the city around them. "This place seems to be getting back to normal."

Crowley nodded, and gazed out over the Piazza della Signoria. Seven years ago, Savonarola had been executed as a heretic just over there; hanged with two of his closer supporters, their bodies burnt to prevent anyone from saving relics. It had all played out as he had predicted. Savonarola had written his book of prophecies. The pope had written back: 'We are displeased at the disturbed state of affairs in Florence...These are not the times for such teachings, calculated as they are to produce discord even in times of peace let alone in times of trouble.' Savonarola had refused to stop preaching. Borgia offered him a Cardinal's hat and a chance to influence church reforms from the inside. Savonarola replied that he would rather have a "hat of blood." Things degenerated rather quickly from there. The demon supposed he should feel elated at the outcome - after all, he was the one who was allowed to be vindictive - and he had been, briefly. Now there was mostly a sort of numbness when he thought about it. So he tried not to.

"Yeah. Artists and scholars returning. In fact, it's even closer to a proper republic now, with both Savonarola and the Medici gone...though I expect the latter will be back eventually." He sighed. "Can't say whether any of my other efforts have led to anything. Still, I suppose I knew it would be a long game when I started."

Crowley glanced over at his companion. "You look tired, Angel."

Aziraphale shook his head and drained his cup. "It's too big. I've done what I can but... Well, there's a new king, Torquemada is gone26, but it just keeps going."

"Had any success in...moderating things?"

Aziraphale sighed. "A bit. Under my influence - Well, and the former pope's27; thanks for the assistance, by the way - they've imposed some stricter rules."

"Such as?"

The angel shifted uncomfortably. "I couldn't get them to stop torturing people. It's too 'everyone does it', you see."

The demon nodded gloomily. That was indeed true in one way or another in every country he'd visited.

"But they have added instructions that inquisitors should not draw blood or cause permanent damage. Or apply the...the treatment for more than fifteen minutes at once or more than eight times."

Crowley frowned. That was all well and good, but..."Don't the accused still get chucked on a bonfire afterward?"

"Well, that's the other thing. They've expanded the...let's say middle options between acquittal and relaxation."

"Relaxation?" The demon was briefly confused, picturing heretics lounging in a Roman _calderium_.

Aziraphale coughed. "That's what they call it when they hand people over to the secular authorities for execution."

"Ah, right. Euphemisms." Had that idea been one of his? He couldn't recall. "Go on."

"Anyway, there are quite a few more people getting suspended trials - that's where they aren't technically acquitted, but are usually let go - or being given a penance, or going through a bigger penance with a public reconciliation ceremony."

The angel twiddled his glass, clearly still unhappy with the overall situation.

"Well, your letter did say I should start sending some of those new books I've been collecting..." Crowley said, trying to cheer him up. "I take it that means they've stopped burning them? How'd you manage that?"

The angel looked brighter, but also slightly embarrassed. "I took some inspiration from you, actually."

The demon's eyebrows went up. " _Really_..."

"I was able to persuade some of the bishops that destroying such books meant that devout scholars would be unable to study and counter their heretical nature. So they've started making lists of texts that good Catholics shouldn't read." The angel looked almost mischievous. "I estimate that readership has gone up an average of 25% for the volumes on the list."

Crowley grinned. Forbidden fruit. "Angel, you are getting positively devious."

"My dear boy, I don't know if I should take that as a compliment or not."

"Please do. Deviousness in a good cause has to be allowable, doesn't it? Speaking of which, didn't you say something about smuggling people out of the country? Wish I could have seen that!"

Aziraphale looked gloomy again. "Not many. One hundred and sixty eight. I know, I know...it matters to them. The trouble is, the whole blasted thing is spreading. I can't keep up."

"Spreading where?"

"You know. The _colonies_."

The angel gave him a pointed look, and Crowley groaned. He was definitely swearing off geography pranks in future. Only a dozen years in, and it already looked like this one was going seriously wrong. Pestilence in particular had some nasty plans for the humans in mind. It almost made him wish he actually was Quetzalcoatl28... but he couldn't be taking on any more suspiciously _nice_ projects right now.

"Portugal is getting in on the act, too. And my prediction to Gabriel was right, unfortunately," the angel continued. "Last year Granada gave the same 'convert or get out' ultimatum to its Muslim population."

Crowley sighed. "We can't save the whole world, Angel. Well, I'm not supposed to be saving _any_ of it, but you know what I mean."

The angel shook his head. "I wouldn't have the chance to keep this up anyway. I've received orders to go back to England."

"Hmm. Well, maybe you'll have more scope to do good there. I've heard this new Tudor king of theirs has been having success in shoring up peace and stability."

So successful, in fact, that the demon wouldn't be surprised to get a 'go over there and make some trouble' order any day now. _Which certainly wouldn't be the worst thing in the world_ , he thought, glancing over at the angel.

"I'll probably be wandering around the German- and Dutch-speaking regions for a bit. I've been corresponding with a young scholar from Rotterdam by the name of Erasmus. I have a feeling this humanism thing might be starting to catch on over there."

"Oh, I didn't get to tell you," Aziraphale remarked. "I did get to see the Great Mosque you mentioned. Quite remarkable - like an endless forest of columns, with a double layer of these charming red and white striped arches on top. And a lovely big courtyard with palms and orange trees just inside the gate."29

"Yes, well, glad you liked it. I suppose it's rubble by now," the demon sighed.

"Actually, no. They're keeping it."

"Really?"

"Yes. Well...partially. They're building a cathedral in it."

The demon frowned, confused. "You mean they're _turning it into_ a cathedral?"

"No. They're clearing a space in the middle and building a cathedral there. With buttresses and everything."

"Urggh."

"I know, it's awfully tacky. But you - well not _you_ specifically, obviously - should still be able to walk around it and get an idea of what the place was supposed to look like."

Crowley raised his glass. "To partial victories, then, I suppose."

"To fighting the good fight," the angel replied.

They drained their glasses.

"Oh, did you know Leonardo's back?" Crowley remarked more brightly.

"Is he?"

"Yes, I told him I'd drop by the studio later to take a look at a new portrait he just finished. You should come. The sketch alone was very good. I'm thinking about buying it."

The angel gave him a skeptical look. "Buying it? Really?"

"All right," the demon conceded, " _Technically_ I've been talking it up to some banker fellow so that he'll outbid me for it. Covetousness, y'see. Then I'll hire some other mortal to steal it from him."

"Hmm. So you get to count two temptations, and Leonardo still gets paid."

"Yeah. A win-win, really. So are you coming?"

1\. Not that the other three horsemen were ever far away. Back

2\. While Crowley had never bothered much with the accounting, the rule seemed to be that at least some sin points applied if the human in question thought what they were doing was a sin. Bonus points if they were doing it because they thought it was bad.Back

3\. Both heaven and hell claimed credit for the crusades, or at least the first three. The fourth one, in which the crusaders sacked Constantinople, a Christian city, and then went home, was a bit of an embarrassment for the upstairs office. Crowley and Aziraphale had debated the subject off and on over the centuries, but after that one Crowley had pointed out: "Look. I don't care what complicated arguments your side came up with. Anything that bloody, wasteful, and ultimately pointless HAS to be points to my side." "Well, I'm sure you're very pleased with yourself, then." "Yeah. Wahoo for us." Back

4\. More or less always being the key term when it came to humans. Two rather fundamentalist North African Muslim dynasties, the Almoravids and the Almohads, had taken over in the 11th and 12th centuries, causing many members of all three faiths to flee north to the still-tolerant Christian kingdoms. And if Crowley had been paying more attention, he might have noted the uptick in events like the 1391 outburst of anti-Semitic violence that led to many deaths and questionable conversions. Back

5\. More or less always being the key term when it came to humans. Two rather fundamentalist North African Muslim dynasties, the Almoravids and the Almohads, had taken over in the 11th and 12th centuries, causing many members of all three faiths to flee north to the still-tolerant Christian kingdoms. And if Crowley had been paying more attention, he might have noted the uptick in events like the 1391 outburst of anti-Semitic violence that led to many deaths and questionable conversions. Back

6\. Donatello's 'David': <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_%28Donatello%29> Back

7\. Both for the irony value, and for the endless sinful possibilities that the conjunction of money and power with religion made possible. Back

8\. The city had once been a papal seat. There was even a period where there were two rival popes, one in Avignon and one in Rome. Crowley had found this hilarious; The other bright spot of the 14th century, as far as he was concerned. Back

9\. Contrary to popular belief, most educated people at the time not only knew the world was round but how large it was. The ancient Greeks had calculated a circumference that was only 200 km off the true value based on sun angles in different cities back in the second century BC. Back

10\. There have been myths of a giant feathered serpent god in Central America since at least 500 BC. In Aztec mythology he's known as Quetzalcoatl. Interestingly, this terrifying beast was mostly concerned with rain-making, knowledge, the arts, and creativity in general. Back

11\. He had to go on hearsay. All consecrated ground is equally painful to demons. Back

12\. Gardens of the Alhambra: [https://visitgranada.net/alhambra/alhambra-gardens/ ](https://visitgranada.net/alhambra/alhambra-gardens/) Back

13\. After all, the angel felt quite confident that if the world were about to end in the next decade or two he would have received some advance notice. Back

14\. Works of Botticelli: [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandro_Botticelli ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandro_Botticelli) Back

15\. After all, he told himself, it wasn't stealing - it was a rescue. Back

16\. Auto-da-fe. A spectacle of penitence, often followed by executions. Back

17\. In fact, although the angel couldn't know it certain, Crowley had never definitively damned a single soul. It was a point of frustration for many of his superiors. Oh, he'd make dozens or hundreds of souls a day slightly grubbier - and that number would grow as technology improved. And sometimes someone under the influence of frustration or drunkenness or debt would do something damnation-worthy; that was how he could justify his approach to hell. But, then again, most didn't, and that was what kept it fun. Back

18\. Another heretical sect, now considered to be sort of proto-Protestants. Back

19\. Unless of course he got distracted and absent-mindedly responded to a question like "Do you believe in our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?" with "Oh, yes. Lovely fellow. Such a shame what happened to him, though.". Back

20\. The trees cry for rain; and the mountains for wind; This is why my eyes cry; For you, my dear beloved. Return and say what will become of me; I will die in a foreign land Back

21\. It should be noted that the charges of poisoning leveled against the Borgias are likely post-mortem slanders. In any case, demons have a sin-detecting sense and while Rodrigo Borgia had plenty of those murder was not one of them at present. Back

22\. Aziraphale rather hoped no one in heaven had told Dominic and Francis everything that those who claimed their spiritual legacy had been up to over the past two centuries. It would not be conducive to heavenly bliss. Back

23\. Including Nicholas of Cusa's "On the peace of faith" (imagining a conference in heaven with representatives of all nations and religions), Lorenzo Valla's "On free will" (arguing that free will is important and exists even if God is omniscient) and "On pleasure"(showing sympathy for Epicurus over the Stoics), and the previously unpublished "Oration on the dignity of man" by Pico de la Mirandola (arguing that humans have no specific place in the chain of being, but can become closer to the angels through using their intellect). Back

24\. He had a nice chat with a young Copernicus, who was struggling to reconcile his observations of the behavior of the moon, including a recent eclipse, with the current model of the cosmos. "Hmm. Well, don't worry about it," Crowley had commented. "I'm sure you're circling around the right answer." Back

25\. Which, incidentally, was none of those things. Back

26\. Crowley had to scramble to come up with a good excuse to avoid that arrival party. He was quite certain Hastur and Beelzebub would expect some rather specific taunting toward the inquisitor from him, and it would raise awkward questions if they realized he had never interacted with the man before. Savonarola's downfall came at a very convenient time. "Ooh...would love to come, but I've got a city to re-debauch. No rest for the wicked and all that. Ciao." Back

27\. Rodrigo Borgia had died two years earlier. The next pope lived only one year longer. The one after that, Giuliano della Rovere, exiled the remaining Borgias from Rome. Back

28\. According to Aztec legend, Quetzalcoatl was one of the creator gods. The other gods getting testy with each other and the humans had led to humanity getting destroyed four times: Once when they were turned into monkeys for being rude, and three more times in rains of jaguars, fire, and blood, respectively. Eventually Quetzalcoatl got fed up, retrieved the bones of all the dead humans from the underworld, and brought them back to life. Well, after first dropping the bones and breaking them, resulting in the different heights of humans in our current world. Back

29\. The great mosque: [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosque%E2%80%93Cathedral_of_C%C3%B3rdoba ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mosque%E2%80%93Cathedral_of_C%C3%B3rdoba) Back

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't resist taking a stab at exploring the reaction of Aziraphale and Crowley to the rare bubble of tolerance and learning that was medieval Spain and it's sudden and tragic end. Given their own ambivalence to the endless war between heaven and hell, it seemed like a place our heroes would like, and would try to save. Renaissance Florence, too, seemed like a perfect match. And of course I got to explain how Crowley got his Mona Lisa sketch, so that was fun.
> 
> The historical information is mostly as close to correct as I could get it. Savonarola's takeover of Florence is accelerated by a few years to give Aziraphale a reason to leave before 1492, but some of his dialog is reassembled from bits of his actual recorded speeches. The list of prohibited texts wasn't compiled until about fifty years after the end of the story, but I liked the idea of Aziraphale borrowing the forbidden fruit concept to encourage reading. Crowley's priest costume might be a little anachronistic as well, since I couldn't find a description of what an ordinary priest would have worn at that time; the outfit for cardinals at the time was a similar shape but in red, so it is at least plausible. While I didn't run across any stories of an inquisition underground railroad, such rescue networks do tend to spring up in many similar situations, so again it seemed reasonable to include.
> 
> The biggest surprises in my reading were the Borgias and the Spanish Inquisition itself. Modern historians seem to have concluded that much of the villainy ascribed to the Borgias was completely made up, while some of their actual recorded deeds - openly caring for one's illegitimate children and welcoming thousands of Jewish refugees in the case of Rodrigo - would be considered quite positive by modern standards. He did also get into things like making up church offices and whatnot to consolidate power, however. As for the Spanish Inquisition, while it was undoubtedly bad, its uniqueness was exaggerated in tales told by the English and other protestant nations, which perpetrated similar atrocities but in the form of witch hunts. The tragedy of it is that it WASN'T unique; it was a commonplace horror coming to a place that had long been spared. And it lasted an absurdly long time. Rather than being weakened by the Renaissance and Reformation changes happened throughout Europe it doubled down, and didn't officially end until 1834. Oh, and yes - it appears that the Spanish Inquisition invented water boarding.
> 
> The non-human characters owe a lot to their show versions, particularly in their appearance. Aziraphale and Crowley would have been about halfway between the start of The Arrangement and the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, so it seemed right that they are hanging out more regularly and know each other well enough to jump into a collaboration of this sort. At the same time, the idea that Crowly has an oddly protective attitude toward humans for a demon has only just clicked with Aziraphale, and the notion that their relationship might be something more than an unlikely friendship is only starting to dawn in a one-sided manner. Sandalphon is a show-only character, but the fact that he gets linked to the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and that - between artists like Leonardo, Donatello, and Michelangelo, and various scholars like Poliziano - Florence seems like the gayest city in Europe at the time, made him perfect as a backer of the killjoy Savonarola. As for the "misunderstanding" referenced...well, go read the Sodom and Gomorrah story with fresh eyes, and see if the moral doesn't sound less like "Don't be gay" and more like "Don't try to gang-rape tourists. Especially if they turn out to be angels."
> 
> I had to guess a little about how sin and virtue works in this universe, since neither the book nor the show make it clear. I figured it probably should work a bit like in the Discworld books, where what you believe is wrong and what you expect to happen after death is relevant...though only up to a point. Can't have Torquemada going to heaven just because he thought he was doing the right thing, after all. Didn't care to speculate on where Rodrigo Borgia ended up - I would imagine his case would be subject to some dispute. 
> 
> I hope the references to Quetzalcoatl aren't insensitive. He is a really interesting deity that more people should know about, but I recognize that linking him in to a story based in another (colonizing) religion might be potentially problematic. Could be interesting to see a story explore that idea in the opposite direction: that it is the "pagan" gods that are real, and the various stories of the monotheistic religions that are their garbled reflections. In any case, it is interesting how often snakes are associated with knowledge or wisdom in ancient myths...even if it gets interpreted as wisdom humans aren't supposed to have.


End file.
